


The Things You Need to Know

by lavvyan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Intimacy, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Power Dynamics, Rope Bondage, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:05:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Let's just say that Clint's post-mission sessions aren't rewards as much as they are sweet, sweet torture. </i>
</p>
<p>In which Clint has what he asked for but it isn't what he wants. Luckily, there is such thing as renegotiation, even if they go about it in all the wrong ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things You Need to Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladydeathfaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/gifts).



> Written for the 2012 Avengers Fest. 
> 
> This story contains bondage and hints of D/s; don't read if that's not your thing. Also, the basic set-up can be read as slight dub-con. 
> 
> I'm afraid I never quite got the hang of porn, so my deepest apologies if this is all... weird. Um.

These are the things you need to know: 

1\. Clint did good today.

He went up high and conducted his team in a way that made them move like a symphony. He saved a civilian from a crazed ninja – seriously – with a shot that would have made his old circus crowd cry. He followed his orders and didn't indulge in more death-defying acrobatics than he absolutely had to, and in the end the day was saved in no small part thanks to him. 

Clint did good today, and he knows it. 

2\. Clint doesn't need to be here.

SHIELD has a way of rewarding its assets that isn't quite mandatory. Encouraged, yes. Required, no. Now that Clint's an Avenger, he doesn't even need to debrief on the Helicarrier, but old habits die hard. Also, see thing number three. 

Besides, he wants this. Wants to get the mission out of his head. Wants to remind his body that there's more to life than fight-or-flight. Wants to feel like he's more than his eyes and hands. 

He knows that some guys let their handlers fuck them while they're still in the showers. Natasha usually disappears with Hill in tow, off to do something that's probably not sexual but no less kinky for it. Wilson needs someone to read him _The Giving Tree_. Greer needs sensory deprivation. Clint... 

Clint needs Coulson. Which leads directly to the final thing you need to be aware of. 

3\. Clint is a hopeless case.

When he first joined SHIELD, Fury explained the reward system to him. Do a good job, he said, and you'll get whatever you want. Within reason, he added, and Clint latched on to that immediately. Had to push it. Did his first job beautifully and made what he thought was an outrageous request. 

Coulson. To tie Clint up. To bring him off. To do it without touching him except to check on the restraints. Toys, yes. Hands, no.

Because a half-blind man could see that Coulson found Clint attractive. Because Clint thought he could use that and annoy Coulson at the same time. Because Coulson was the kind of unflappable that really got on Clint's nerves. 

If anyone asked him – which no one ever does, but _if_ anyone asked him – Clint would have to admit that he didn't think things through. Coulson is methodical, detail-oriented and ruthless. He doesn't need to touch Clint with his hands to make him come hard enough to see stars. Worst of all, he's _reliable,_ and once Clint started to trust him, well... 

Let's just say that Clint's post-mission sessions aren't rewards as much as they are sweet, sweet torture. 

And yet he'll take them. Because they're all he'll get.

**********

So now Clint's sitting naked on a bed, a length of black cotton rope curled neatly next to him. The ends of the rope have been sewn with purple thread so they won't fray. Coulson's suggestion, but Clint's the one who did the sewing. He still isn't sure if the whole thing had been a promise on Coulson's part – planning long-term, like he'll stick around – or a silent reminder that of the two of them, Clint is the one who wants this so Clint better be the one to make sure their equipment is in order. So there's the rope, and the black-and-purple suede flogger, and the lube, and a small selection of plugs.

Staring down at the blindfold in his hands, Clint promises himself that this will be the last time he's stupid enough to do this.

(He's made that promise before, but somehow he always ends up figuring that a small part of Coulson is still better than no Coulson at all and ends up on the bed again. He's an idiot, is Clint Barton.)

The knock at the door comes too early. It always does. Clint is a sniper and a strategist; he was a circus performer long before that. He's known how to drop into a calm and focused head space for the longest time. 

None of his old tricks work when it comes to this. 

"Come in," he says, regardless. 

He asked for this. He's going to see it through. 

Coulson enters the room the same way he does everything else: unhurried, self-assured, a little bit too earnest. A man who knows what he wants but doesn't intend to let anyone else in on it unless he can make it an order. 

"Put the blindfold on, Barton," is the first thing he says.

See?

His tone is mild, but Clint knows how much Coulson hates delays. He's probably blocked no more than two hours for Clint's – stupid – session. God knows what will happen to SHIELD if Coulson's late for his next appointment. 

So Clint gets up without comment and ties the blindfold around his head. It's just a strip of soft black fabric, nowhere near enough to shut out all the light, but Clint prefers it that way. He likes to have something other than Coulson's voice to keep his bearings. 

Then he crosses his arms behind his back and straightens, legs slightly apart, the closest he'll ever get to something like parade rest. He used to feel self-conscious, standing like he's waiting for Coulson to inspect him, but he likes it now. Likes to imagine Coulson's gaze slide up and down his body. It's a damn fine body, if Clint says so himself. 

Now, if he knew how to ask Coulson to actually touch said body, that'd be great. But he made such a big deal about Coulson keeping his hands off that he has no idea how to go back on that. How to negotiate a different deal. 

This, too, is one of the many things Clint has fucked up for himself. 

There's a long moment of silence as he stands there. It's not how they... how this usually works. They usually get right down to it. Clint wonders if this is going to be the day that Coulson tells him to fuck off, when Coulson finally moves. 

Coulson's suit rustles quietly as Coulson picks up the rope. A few seconds pass, then the first loop goes around Clint's neck. Clint swallows. Coulson always knots the rope so there's not even the slightest risk of choking, but the mere idea...

A second knot on Clint's chest, a third between there and his bellybutton, a fourth just above his cock. The rope is soft, the knots ghosting across his skin as Coulson runs the ends of the rope left and right of his balls, between his legs, to his back. 

"Arms to the front," Coulson says quietly. Clint obeys. He lets the tips of his fingers brush against his inner thighs as Coulson goes on to knot the rope up his back, through the loop around his neck. His cock twitches and he lets out a slow breath. The rope sits snug between his ass cheeks now, with another knot pressing down right above the crack. 

"Up," Coulson says, and Clint holds his arms out to the sides, listens to Coulson step around him as he brings the ends of the rope around his body, through each knot, around and down and around again. He's never seen the diamond pattern Coulson creates but he's felt the press of each knot, the tightening of each loop until his entire torso feels like it's cradled by a cage of Coulson's making, dozens of times before. He knows how the cotton will press against his balls, how the knot at the base of his spine will slowly drive him crazy once Coulson ties his hands to it.

Each step is familiar, but something's different this time. Something in the way Coulson moves, slow and careful, like he couldn't do this in his sleep. Like every part of this is new, untested, needs to be done just right so Clint won't break. 

He's not going to break. 

Clint lowers his arms without being told.

"Good," Coulson murmurs after a brief pause; Clint would close his eyes if he didn't have the blindfold on. His breath is speeding up, his cock half-hard already, something inside him unraveling. The rope goes around his wrists, slowly, ties them together so the soft insides rest snug against each other, anchored to the harness with the final knot pointing up towards Clint's head so he can't reach it. 

He can't reach it. He's tried. And the simple knowledge that he won't get free of the rope until Coulson lets him... 

It's freeing. 

Clint sighs, his balls hot and heavy between his legs. This is what he needs. Anything else is either a bonus or something he can't have. 

Coulson's fingers brush against his own. To check Clint's circulation, Clint knows, but it still feels like a caress, like he's something precious. His breath hitches, just enough for both of them to notice.

God. What is wrong with him today? 

"I'm good," he says, and his voice sounds steady. Well, mostly steady. Normal, anyway. 

He can do this. 

"Okay." Coulson's fingers drop away. Clint hears him take a few steps, the whisper of suede dragging across fabric as Coulson picks up the flogger. 

Clint's not into pain. The suede is butter-soft; the next best thing if he can't have skin on skin. Coulson steps behind him again, lets the straps brush across Clint's shoulders, nudges the knot at the top of Clint's spine. Clint sighs and tries to relax into it. Each pass of the lashes is slow, almost teasing, but that's not what he wants right now. Drawn-out and cautious is not how they do this. 

He opens his mouth to say... he doesn't quite know what, when the flogger drops away entirely. Clint listens, waiting for Coulson to give him a clue, or maybe to tell him they can't do this anymore. Assets can request a lot of things from SHIELD, but they can't force anything to happen. Coulson doesn't have to be here any more than Clint does. 

Maybe even less. 

Coulson taps his thumb against the handle of the flogger. It's almost like he thinks that, if he taps hard enough, he can force the words to drop right out of it. 

Clint doesn't dare move.

"Earlier today, when you... saved me," Coulson starts, and Clint feels his stomach drop, "you looked very... Those were some very impressive moves."

Clint has tried not to think about 'earlier today.' Any death-defying acrobatics he performed he did because Coulson dropped off the comms and Clint had no decent line of sight on him. He doesn't even want to remember the way his heart had lurched in his chest when he'd found Coulson, three dead ninjas on the ground around him but the fourth very upright with a throwing star against Coulson's throat.

Clint had dropped him with an arrow through the eye before he'd even been aware of lining up the shot. 

"Thank you, sir," he says. He realizes he's clenching his fingers and makes them relax again. 

"And that's not what I meant to say at all." Coulson sighs. Clint hears the drag of skin against fabric as Coulson shakes his head. "I meant to ask... You looked panicked. Like you... cared."

Clint's heart jumps. Of course he cares, _of course_ he does. But Coulson wasn't supposed to know that. 

"You're my handler," he says, mouth dry. 

More thumb-tapping. 

"Is that all?" Coulson asks softly. 

Clint pulls a short breath through his nose. Coulson has to see the way Clint's pulse hammers in his throat. Has to notice the way Clint's fingers are clenching again. If there's one person Clint has no defense against...

He licks his lips. This is it, then. The moment he loses what little he has. 

"No," he whispers. "No, it's not."

Coulson inhales sharply. The flogger lands on the floor. Clint waits for the first tug to untie the rope... and jerks when a palm brushes warm and hesitant against the back of his neck. 

"I want to touch you," Coulson says, and Clint has to take a breath of his own as he hears how shaky Coulson's voice sounds, how much _want_ he can hear in there. "Please, let me touch you."

"Oh god, yes," Clint moans, and that's all the invitation Coulson needs to let his fingers trail along the edge of the blindfold, a streak of warmth across Clint's cheek; to let his hands wander up and down Clint's torso, dragging on the rope. Clint lets out a disbelieving laugh as Coulson gently pushes him face-down onto the bed – with his _hands;_ Clint manages to turn his head to the side and catch just enough of Coulson's fingers to leave a kiss behind – and proceeds to take Clint apart. 

Fingers tracing each line the rope leaves across his body. Kisses dampening the center of each diamond pattern. Short bites marking the position of each knot on his back. Sweat breaks out on Clint's skin as Coulson maps it, makes it his with each touch and nip and caress. Clint's shaking, and he doesn't care. 

Clint hasn't been this hard in years. He hears himself whine as Coulson's thumbs spread his cheeks, cock rubbing against the too-soft mattress beneath him as he jerks away from Coulson's breath, hot and moist around the rope that's dragging against his hole. 

"What are y... ohhhhh," he groans, trying to spread his legs further as Coulson pulls the rope aside and _licks._

"You're incredible," Coulson breathes against his skin and, god, pushes his tongue against Clint's hole, wet and hot and strangely cool at the same time as it presses into him, just a little. 

Clint can only moan, squirming now, fingers flexing against thin air as he shakes apart under Coulson's touch. He makes a wordless noise of protest as Coulson's mouth leaves him; tugs at the rope to try and pull him back, but the knot holds. 

The knot _holds_ and Clint just... he drops, he falls, he melts into the mattress with a strangled breath, held fast by the ropes and the knowledge that Coulson's got him, Coulson has him where he wants him, _Coulson wants him._ There's nothing else that could be remotely as important as Coulson's suit pants brushing against the back of Clint's legs, the wet squirting sound of the lube, the slickness of Coulson's fingers as they trail against Clint's hole. 

Clint's body is a single cluster of nerves made for the sole purpose of feeling Phil Coulson's fingers stroke into him; of feeling Phil's hand rest like an anchor between Clint's shoulder blades; of feeling Phil's lips burn an open-mouthed kiss into the back of his neck. Phil is doing those things, and Clint exists to have them done to him. 

"Phil," he moans, breathless, barely aware he's doing it until he hears the choked-off noise behind him, feels the hand on his back clench around the rope.

"Clint," he hears, in a voice so raspy it's barely recognizable, and that's it, he's done. Never mind the fingers in his ass: hearing Phil come undone at the sound of his name is what pushes him over. 

Clint comes with a strangled groan, his body tight as he spills onto the sheets. Phil coaxes him through it, fingers working inside him while the hand on his back strokes up and down. Clint whines and slumps, spent and high on it, high on Phil.

He feels Phil pull out of him and away, and mutters an incoherent protest into the mattress. Phil runs a hand through Clint's sweaty hair, humming soft reassurance as he gets up and wanders into the bathroom. Clint hears the water run for a moment and then Phil is back at his side, untying the knot that binds Clint's hands, fingers cool against Clint's own. Phil does quick work of taking the harness apart, gently turning Clint this way and that as he undoes the knots. Clint tries to help but his body's too loose to do more than vaguely flop in the right direction. Phil snorts and tells him to stop it as he pulls away that final loop, the one that was around Clint's neck. 

"S'r," Clint slurs, and presses an obnoxiously wet kiss to the inside of Phil's wrist. 

Phil freezes for a moment and Clint tries to work out if he did something wrong, but then Phil tugs out the soiled sheets from underneath him and uses them to clean Clint up. 

"Blindfold?" he asks, fingers brushing along Clint's cheek where the fabric rests against his skin. 

"Not yet," Clint decides. Phil's fingers make another pass, an open caress this time. Clint smiles. Phil lets out a slow breath, and then the mattress dips as Phil climbs back onto it and pulls Clint into his arms like it's the natural thing to do. Maybe it is. Maybe Clint can have this now. It's a little weird, feeling Phil's suit against his naked skin, but a good weird. Clint hums as he feels Phil's hand return to its spot between his shoulder blades and rest there. 

"Next time," he murmurs, "next time, you're getting naked, too."

He's already picturing it, the aftermath of his next successful mission, with himself tied up the way Phil likes it, Phil's body blanketing him head to toe, skin to skin, heat and sweat. Phil touching him. Phil fucking him.

He whimpers. 

Phil lets out a huff that's half exasperation and half desire. 

"How about tonight?" he asks, and his hand on Clint's back feels like a promise.

**********

These are the things you need to know:

1\. Clint did good today.

He saved a civilian and rescued his handler, and later he answered a question more honestly than he might have if he hadn't been tied up at the time, but it all worked out beautifully, so whatever. 

2\. Clint doesn't need to be here.

He could be at the range, or in the kitchen, or in his own bed where the mattress isn't so hard it feels like someone shoved a door beneath his back. SHIELD has a way of rewarding good work, but whatever reward Phil asked for it clearly wasn't a comfortable bed. 

"Your bed sucks," he says. 

"You don't have to be here," Phil replies, like he's reading Clint's mind. Like he isn't wrapped around Clint like an octopus. 

To be fair, Clint's doing a pretty good impression of a cephalopod himself. 

"I don't," Clint says, and if he sounds entirely too happy about it, Phil thankfully doesn't comment. 

3\. Clint is a hopeless case.

Because he'd do it all again.

After all, look where it got him.


End file.
